


I've got you on the brain

by TheForestUnderQuarantine



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Body Horror, Crapsack World, End of the World, Halloween story, Horror, Isolation, M/M, Psychological Horror, Violence, radio romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26744674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheForestUnderQuarantine/pseuds/TheForestUnderQuarantine
Summary: Lance didn't think he would ever fall in love. In a world where everyone wants to kill you and every potential encounter is a threat, his love life seemed pretty much DOA.He never could have predicted he would fall in love with a voice on a radio transmission.Well, at least voices can't kill you.
Relationships: Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Kudos: 9





	I've got you on the brain

It took him three attempts to break through the door. It was surprisingly thick and undamaged for its age. Lance was surprised no one had broken in before. That after all these years there was an untouched house. 

To be fair, it had been an accident that he had seen the building in the first place. 

He’d slipped on leaf litter covering the forest floor, landing with a thud that had dislodged the utensils hooked onto his backpack. He’d been dazed. Landed pretty hard. His quite weighty rucksack had hit the back of his head in that vulnerable part between the neck and the back of his skull and he sat dazed and confused on a bed of leaves for several seconds that could have cost him dearly had he been stalked. 

Thankfully his feelings of being watched were proven false, as nothing fell upon him as he just lay there. 

He would have scrambled up, but he was so tired. Hungry. He hadn’t eaten in three days. His bleary eyes had located the open spoon attachment in his pocket-knife and his hand had slowly reached to pick it up, when he saw the slither of a hut located behind a boulder in the crescent of its reflection.  
He needed to be vigilant. He thought he was dreaming. But creeping through the rock cavern, his spoon and eyes were proven right. 

A momentary safe haven. 

Or a den for death? 

His dry, parched mouth was too desperate to not take his chances. He hadn’t found drinkable water through his hikes through the forest. 

The acid rain had poisoned the river he had found, fish bobbing and burnt through on the surface. 

He prayed the home had running, filtered water in a closed-lid tank. But the chances of that were as unlikely as non-toxic rain. 

Christ, his throat ached. It scratched all along his larynx, tingled on his skin.

He finally managed to roll upwards and onto his feet with a heave, his bones feeling like they were creaking under their own weight. 

He dared not speak out loud. 

Speaking out loud brought attention, even when one thought they were alone. He glanced hastily around the perimeter, scanning for signs of life between the trees and above the giant boulders in front of him. 

He had meant to move quickly in this clearing. An open area like this made him vulnerable to attack, especially from people on the higher ground. He didn’t want to risk discovery. It would result in death or worse. 

Only the most brutal of people, unscrupulous and powerful, could survive out here alone. 

Lance had survived so far through being resourceful, and people—monsters, really—underestimating him enough to slip away. He would have run away from the hidden house already, sensing a trap, had he not been so very desperate. He looked up, the point of his chin jutting defiantly towards the sky as he tried to stare over the boulders housing the cottage. 

It concerned him that he couldn’t see anything but immediately above them. Couldn’t see if anyone was lying on their stomachs slightly out of view, ready to spider crawl and drop on him from above unawares to him. Ready to tear his throat open and feast on his flesh.

Maybe he was catastrophising. The anxiety and ADHD that impeded him in the Time Before still exhausted him but had been instrumental in keeping him alive. He wasn’t going to doubt his instincts. 

He picked up his fallen cooking utensils—a multi-purpose pocketknife and the frying pan—hooking the cutlery back on the bag, wielding the frying pan like a blunt force weapon as he approached the rocks, before it got too difficult—too narrow—and he had to abandon his pack and pan behind him to get through the gap. 

Luckily, his naturally slim body was even skinnier and more nimble as he squeezed himself through, the rock grazing the skin of his cheek on the way through with a hiss. 

With a relieved groan he made it through to the otherside, hands reaching back to grab his pack and pull it in behind him. Laying it out in the open like that was dangerous. It would not only be stolen—and he might need his antiseptic tube for his cheek—but also draw attention to the hidden cottage. Thankfully he managed to get it and the pan through. 

His hands scrambled over the bag to make sure there was no damage to the zippers which would have proven potentially deadly for the loss of materials it would bring about in an emergency. His hands grazed over a tightly sewn on patch, remembering the medicine that had slipped from the tear. Never again.

He jolted as a shadow moved above him, accompanied by the sound of a scamper, but his jackrabbiting heart calmed down when he realized it was only a lizard, staring at him with onyx dark and dilated eyes. The poor creature was mutated, its right back leg melded at the toes and providing little grip on the rock, but its front legs were built thick and muscular from pulling it along. Once the terror had subsided, Lance felt his panic subsiding. He waved at the creature, cooing, but dared not reach a hand up to hold it. 

He only dared touch animals he had observed hunting and for at least an hour. The puffy scars from the Samoyed attack cloud he had mistaken for friendly only ached when he thought about them or on cold days.

Rucksack returning to its place as a comfortable weight on his back, he turned his attention back to the cottage, glancing at the windows for traces of life and potential danger. Unfortunately, they were painted black, as was all too common in areas notorious for danger and break-ins. 

People were less likely to trespass if they had no idea what was inside. 

For all they knew, a person with better weapons than them could be laying in wait by the door to pounce on any fool that burst inside. Additionally, there was no window-shopping temptation possible. 

A double-edged sword, it was a danger for those who didn’t have surveillance systems set up as the inhabitants would not know the size of those antagonising them. But most rectified this with cameras, enabling a looking out while potential invaders couldn’t look inside. The basic defences made Lance think twice—clearly, whoever had been inhabiting the building was a survivalist—but his thirst and hunger compelled him to move forward as he practically crawled to the side of the house looking for any camera set-up. 

He doubled-back around the house—in a cramped space, it was probably setup to see every inch—but could see no recording equipment, nor tripwires. Perhaps the homeowner had thought, hubristically, that blacked out windows and the secure-seeming hidden location of the building would be enough. He sincerely hoped they had not been trapped inside by their own planning and protection rocks. 

The ground seemed undisturbed. No boot-mark grooves. No disrupted grass. He stared down at the stubborn weeds sprouting between the cracks of rock and dry ground, stubbornly clinging to life and each other even in the relative shade. Perhaps it was because of the lack of exposure to rain that they had not been spoiled. Lance unhooked his trusty pocketknife, cutting out a handful of the common weed to chew on. He knew it was non-toxic from studying the blades. Limited nutrition, but enough to convince his bleary brain for the time being that he was eating, the sour flavour bringing him back to alertness.

So, there he was. Taking those three attempts to break in.

The three tries to open the locked door—with two failed kicks from his long legs, and a third thud from his shoulder after a run-up—resulted in a swollen shoulder and a very ungraceful fall upon the floor. 

This fall allowed him to miss the bullet bursting from that set-up gun that had been rigged up at the door, which burnt through the air just inches above his head. 

Sprawled on the ground with a possibly sprained shoulder, Lance gasped. Checked himself over for bullet wounds, the only kind of touch he permitted himself these days now that he had no time to care for his skin nor no friends to hug. 

Sighing in relief at the verification that he was, in fact, not dead, Lance looked up at the gun. A standard two-cylinder shotgun that, provided there was ammunition in the house, could come in handy as either defence. Not a hunting rifle, though. The sound of the shot was like a concentrated thunder strike and it would give away his location quickly. Although clumsy—almost too clumsy to survive the apocalypse—he had enough wits about him to scamper through, and those wits were saying shots were only for emergencies. 

The smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils. 

Reminded him of his abuelo, who let Lance shoot at old cans at his farm, lined up along the fence-line. He had offered to take Lance rabbit hunting (pest patrol) but young Lance had burst into tears and refused the gun at the first shot, the rabbit’s panic making him sick and nauseous as it darted away with its back foot bloody and blown off. 

It wouldn’t survive long, with an injury like that. 

Lance perfected shooting at inanimate objects on the off-chance he’d ever have to raise his gun at another living being. He wasn’t going to let them suffer.

He stood up. He felt like he was doing a lot of that lately, his knees getting quite the workout. Hand on the barrel of the gun, feeling up the steel. It was nicer than the old thing at his abuelo’s. He hoped it was just as reliable. 

He cut it down off its string with one hand on the butt. He glanced around the room, ducking to the side of the doorframe, distressed his greed for the illusion of protection in a weapon overrode his own protective instincts. 

The cottage was small—more of a cabin really. Four rooms. This main entrance and living area attached to a small kitchenette off to the side. A smaller room that looked to be a bathroom. A storage closet which was practically flat against the wall with not much depth. And what he presumed was a bedroom. 

There was a threadbare couch in the middle of the living room set up to watch a tv which had long since been made hairy and unwatchable with a thick layer of dust. 

Lance slowly made his way through the room, gun—however empty it was, it might give him some split seconds of hesitation before they recognised it—kicking over a pair of practically new hiking boots. He looked around the floor for any shell casings. Found a larger flick knife that he quickly added to his belt. 

There was a red sleeping bag thrown along the floor of the room, complete with a cushion that could be used as a pillow at the head. The cushion had art of a happy hippo on the casing, and Lance felt himself smiling at the innocence of it all until it registered that it was probably the property of a child.

A dead child. 

Lance had never been a religious man, although he had been raised Catholic, but he sent a quiet prayer for the child. That, if they were dead, they had been killed swiftly and without fear or much pain. 

Although his throat was crying for water, he checked the bedroom and bathroom first, moving from one to the next with a carefully quiet turn of the handle followed by a quick shove open, gun posed before him as shield and bludgeon both. 

Both were empty. 

The bathroom had a shaving razor left in the sink, its hair still clogged between the blades. Dark and curly. Had they had to leave in a hurry? 

Lance looked at his own reflection in the sink, practically wincing at how sallow and haggard his normally glowing skin was looking. In the Time Before he admittedly had been quite vain. Taken pride in his golden-brown skin-tone, the smoothness of his skin, and he had worn many a face-mask to treat it right. It was what his largest organ deserved. 

He would have been distraught at an outbreak of zits—how naïve his fifteen-year-old self had been, his priorities so small it was almost despicable. He would have absolutely screamed to see how aged and lined his skin was, almost leathered by sunburn. Baggage of loss held under his eyes in heavy lines. 

He couldn’t blame himself for his vanity, nor could he blame himself for his ragged appearance. 

He tugged at his curly tawny locks, half watching himself looking at the split-ends and knife-cut arrangement with a hefty pout. His younger self would have reprimanded himself. Pouts just cause more wrinkles! Although his younger self was a hypocrite as he would pout every time he did not get his way. 

His cheeks and chin were dotted with unappealing patches of hair, barely grown. He just wasn’t the kind of man who would ever be able to grow a beard, seemingly. He stared at the razor. Could he indulge his younger self? 

He looked behind the mirror on the self-indulgent search for shaving cream, dotting it across his face before he even checked for clean water. He was very lucky when he turned the tap, and miraculously a clean stream tumbled out in creaky spurts. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Stopped his endeavours entirely to drink like a cat from the stream, the applied shaving cream beneath his chin dripping off with the water that guzzled down leaving behind the faintest traces of stinging peppermint. 

His younger self would have been aghast for even considering using another man’s razor, actually giving a shit about hygiene, but here he wiped away what he could of the leftover hairs with folded up toilet paper and then rinsing the rest out with minimal water, he got to work, shaving off the personally repugnant tufts after a careful lather.

With a splash of water, he was cleansed again. The suds and loosened hair fell away and he was once again fresh faced and alert looking. Not as clear-skinned as he was in the past, but he was reclaiming himself. He made eye-contact with his darkened slate blue eyes in the mirror. Gave himself a wink and a pair of finger guns. Still got it. Any babe would be lucky to have him in an apocalypse, he thought with a faltering smirk. 

The high from the change was erased by the encroaching loneliness as he slumped. He wiped away his hair and put the razor neatly in what seemed to be its rightful place behind the mirror. He glared at the lack of resources left. Clearly the people who lived here had raided their stocks for anything essential like medicines and plasters, leaving behind the inessential aesthetic properties. 

There was a shower in the back of the room, the toilet off to the side. Lance sighed as he imagined the feel of hot water against his aching muscles. The lather of cinnamon body wash against his skin. The hint-of-apple shampoo lathered in his hair. God he wanted to be vain again. To enjoy the finer things, if only for a moment.

But he didn’t know how much water reserves were in their enclosed system’s tank. Didn’t want to risk an unnecessary shower when he could be replenishing his thirst and stocking up on water for the road. He could live with the grime coating nearly every inch of skin. The bugs he could sometimes feel crawling through his hair. He could live with it. He couldn’t live without water. 

He knew he would be gone as soon as a proper cup’s worth touched his mouth. He was tempted to check the bedroom and closet next as a result, but his thirst would not allow it, especially when he inhaled some dust and was back dry heaving over the sink. 

The kitchenette was wholesome and practical. Its equipment was dated about ten years out and everything was attached. Clearly it had been a cabin away from everything made by someone with a bit of finances in the Time Before. The boulders probably came later to further hide their little hideaway. 

He wandered where the builders of it were now. 

A metal camping cup that was blue but spotted with stars touched his lips after he poured a glass-worth. Tinny water was better than nothing. He gasped at the touch, guzzling the whole cup within seconds as he practically choked over it. He didn’t want to waste any water, especially after his indulgences in the bathroom, but some dribbled down his chin in the enthusiastic drink. 

He let out a self-satisfied hum as he got himself another cup. 

Then another. 

Each one savoured a little more slowly. He smacked his lips together at the end and let out a cheer. A quiet cheer—he’d already made so much noise but he wasn’t going to push his luck in alerting a nearby vagabond—but he couldn’t help it. He hadn’t had this much success in what felt like years. Wanted to stay here forever, curled up in the sleeping bag laid down on the floor. 

There was something more morbid about a bed for two that had no one left in it. He’d seen it when opening the door, a permanently empty king. 

He took a fourth cup to completely quench his thirst. Filled up the three water bottles in his bag. The water was still flowing even at the end of that, but he’d need to be careful with it. 

He told himself he’d leave as soon as the water was emptied. Although no one else had seemed to find this place, lingering would draw attention, give off noise, if the gunshot at the door hadn’t drawn any to start with. 

There were no cameras set up to monitor the outside. Although the windows were blackened, it was possible they could see movement or light within at the edges of each. And anyone stumbling through could fall upon the same luck. Everyone would check if given the chance. He did not want to risk a confrontation with another human being.

He told himself this, and yet he still gave himself the luxury of slowly walking through the kitchen and living room, checking out every corner. 

There were cookies still in the cookie jar, but it looked like they’d been raided by mice at some point or else had dried up and cracked with age. Still, he unlocked the clasp and nibbled on some shortbread, alternating with the water. There was a kettle he could boil on the gas stove. Some of the contaminated water outside could be saved with it, but not the stuff poisoned with toxins and acid, so this eliminated all but a few bodies of water across the county. 

He already had a kettle, but this one seemed better made and more sturdy. His own had dents in it from rough living. He traded them out. 

The electricity had long been cut, no doubt to prevent attention, so no television. Even if he could watch it, only what was approved by the state was broadcast and this was carefully curated news crafted to make it seem like the world was not falling apart.

He’d seen many playing on a run through a city during a raid. None of them seemed to be saying anything. He’d almost spat the sausage he had stolen out of his mouth when he heard one of the faces on the television sets proclaiming all was well and it should be. He would have stopped to flip them off but he had already wasted too much time, and a Bowen Conscriptor not been stalking him for sport to either throw in the van for the front or else execute right then and there as per the overpopulation mandate.

This was back in the days before the cities had become truly too dangerous to frequent.

He found a med-kit below the sink. Why something so integral was left behind he did not know. Perhaps they had been forced out quickly. Perhaps they had more than one. The hair prickled like electricity at the back of his neck. This cabin was probably marked for observation. Best to move on quickly. But he wanted to sleep unobserved by the stars for at least one night. 

He fluffed the hippo cushion on the ground. Best the camping kid have something nice to come back to if he ever happened upon this place. She might be like Lance. Long without her parents and scared. But adapting. 

Who was he kidding, she was probably long dead, along with her parents.

He bit the bullet and walked into the lonely bedroom. It was a room of shadow, the blind blinked over the already blackened window. The house was dark as it was. Nestled within rocks, not much but shadows came inside. 

No goldilocks stealing mediocre porridge nor breaking chairs. Nor sleeping in beds that looked like a home, even in the small ray from Lance’s flashlight. 

Lance couldn’t risk tears or sentimentality for strangers. He couldn’t risk them for his own family, although sometimes they needed to fall. But the space-ship sheets made him laugh. The husband must have been a total dork.

He walked over to their bedhead, taking in a pile of books. Some pulp sci-fi with alien amphibian chicks shooting laser beams and big muscled hunks standing stalwart, spines cheaply made and lined with use, more wrinkled than the skin around his abuela’s eyes when she smiled. A biography on astronauts who had been to the moon, meticulously kept, was beside it. 

God, any space travel had seemed so long ago, programs long since disbanded as the world dissolved and the crashes of satellites into major cities had hastened their dissolution. 

Some escapism was admirable, Lance thought as he flicked open one of the pulpy ones and began reading the opening lines. His cheeks heated up at the immediate entry into a love scene. God. Not enough build up for his taste. He slammed it shut and put it back on the table, crushing over a pair of spectacles that had been laying beside the two stacks. 

He winced at the sound of breaking glass, picking up the pair. It was a fancy type, the frame unlike any standard pair he had seen before. The weightier part of the frame was down the bottom, a grey-brown line that ran across the nose bridge and under the eyes. As if the man had to be different to the usual crowd. Lance wondered if you could tell a lot about a man from his (now cracked) glasses, the frames around the window to the soul accentuating certain features, but he hadn’t heard a thing about it. He put them on the shelf bellow out of respect, to make them less likely to be crushed by wandering book thieves and pillages.

This brought him face to face with the man’s photograph. Well. The man and his man’s photograph. 

The couple that lived in the spaceship sheets were happy in the photo. The quality made him think it had been taken at least eight years before. The pair looked to be early twenties in the image. Smiling wide and cheesy into the camera. The man with the glasses, dark skinned and curly haired, was leaning against the other man who was clearly of Asian descent while throwing bunny ears over his shoulder. They were in flight ware. Perhaps they had flown in the last defence, before they were overwhelmed and had to retreat to their cabin. 

Both looked young, happy and victorious, matching engagement rings strung up around their necks alongside their dog tags. Lance took out his magnifying glass from his rucksack. Checked it over and memorised their names. Their designations—primary and secondary pilots, the man with the glasses also having medic credentials. No wonder their med-kit was so stacked.

They looked happy. And they were probably dead. 

The one beside it was even more relaxed. Them in formal casual clothes with what looked to be a younger-teens kid at the table just outside the door in front of the couch. The kid had his arms crossed and was glaring down at a particularly overcooked piece of broccoli. The one called Adam looked like he was pissing himself laughing. Takashi looked like he was deeply offended. 

Lance cocked his head at the kid. Smiled sadly. So he liked hippos, huh. They looked like a lovely family. The kid looked like he’d be around his age, had he survived. Maybe a year or two older.

He left the photos where they were, no doubt watching the bed and remembering kinder times. The (probably) husbands would have held each other under the blankets when there was nothing else in the world to hold onto. He wished he had something like that.

The fridge was tragic. The milk had gone off years ago and smelt like pungent lactose-scented death. He didn’t dare open it to see the lumps, instead rummaging through for anything that was long-life. He knew he’d have more luck in the pantry. The vegetables and fruits in the crisper were liquid, a thick purple-black sludge. God, why’d he even bother—

Beer. The answer was always beer. 

Even if off—which it was—it could still be drunk. He popped the cap and slurped it down with a refreshing hiss from both himself and the can. God that tasted bad. God was that the most refreshing thing he’d ever tasted. 

There appeared to be antivenom located at the bag of the fridge. He pulled it out with his non-beer hand, checking the label. Viable. He pocketed the three vials.

The couch was calling for him to lay down. It had a tattered blanket with Buzz Lightyear draped over the back. His lack of vigilance in the last two hours distressed him, but he couldn’t seem to stop. There was something so cosy and comforting about this little cabin. It made him feel safe, even though he knew the world outside was anything but. He just wanted to wrap himself up inside of the blanket and sleep for a thousand years like some fairy-tale princess. He felt too weird to sleep in any of the other made beds, and the couch looked oh so comfortable. 

He sat up by the table instead to try and get his bearings back, rigid as an old professor. Taxes littered the table, the numbers looking gnarly and in the red. There were also letters piled neatly on the desk, even stamped with official stamps. Perhaps they still had military privileges. 

He brought the top one close to him, opening up the seal to see if there were any schematics and schemes for future military action that he needed to know about. He gradually unfolded one of the letters inside, and almost immediately like the books slammed it back inside after reading the first paragraph, but not before the tasteful flirty photograph Takashi Shirogane had made for his boyfriend blared across his retinas. 

Even though nothing was on show, Lance still averted his eyes in embarrassment, because Christ he was not expecting that. 

The letter itself seemed too intimate as it was, from what little he had read before noticing the picture.

_Dear Adam,_

__

_I’m feeling like your Grandma, calling you Dear and actually meaning it beyond the formality of the letter requirements. Maybe she was onto something. You’re very Dear. Dear to me, that is. God Adam, I miss you so much. I am so sorry. You know me, I don’t like to stay still, and yet you were the one who was stationed out and I have to wait at home like some wartime widow, just waiting on a letter, whether from you or God forbid, the officials themselves. It feels shit. I’m starting to realize what you were feeling last time I was sent out, and God I’m sorry for our stupid, stupid fight. We’re both idiots. I long for the day you get back. I’ve found some of your favourite wildflowers in the mountains—you know, the resilient weed daisies—and made a vase full of them for you. I hope you like them. Hope that when you get back I’ve perfected it, as Keith says my flower arrangement’s even worse than my cooking. Yeah, laugh all you want, you’re going to get a fucking amazing bouquet when you’re back. And Keith’s not going to be laughing either when I kick him out for a bit when you walk on through that door. He’s going to be all ‘ew gross’ but it’s for his own good because damn Adam, the way I’m going to hold you when you get home …_

_Keith’s doing fine. He’s had a few run-ins with the Bowen’s AND the local mountain guards. Kid’s giving me more grey hairs and I don’t know why I put up with him. Well. Because he’s like a little brother to me and has nowhere else to go. But sometimes I get a bit angry. He can be so short-sighted and snappy at the wrong people. Hasn’t learned to pick his battles, but that comes with age and wisdom. Hopefully we can guide him better so he gets there. The other day he tried to save a dog the guards were cutting up for supper and they almost took a chunk out of him, too, before they were able to scramble away. Oh, he’s got a three-legged dog now. Because of course he does. Kosmo says hi too. My name isn’t enough to scare them off these days. Keith’s actions are really starting to piss them off and I’m scared. You’re the stricter parent. It might be better if you were able to lay down the law, because shit Ads, I’m struggling—_

And then the photo had slid out and made itself known and Lance had had to say no more on his snooping because that was clearly for Adam’s eyes only. 

Each letter was dated on the back. The time varying across a five-year span. The last one was dated just six months ago. Had it been Lance, it would have been a whole book’s worth of letters stacked on top of each other. Shiro clearly had restraint. Passionate in his love, but restrained and with faith that his partner would return to him in his own time. 

Lance was saddened for him; there was no way for him to send them, no address for the military base as they both knew anything not related to missions would be thrown out or else heavily redacted as to not distract, even if they had clearance themselves. These letters were written solely for Shiro, as if to give him hope that he was talking to Adam and that he would return one day to read them. Or, perhaps, that Shiro had been wavering in his faith and he wrote them as if to tell himself not to be stupid, of course he’s coming back.

Lance used to do the same for his parents and siblings, his nieces and nephews. None of them were ever sent, either.

The last letter was slightly damp, as if it had been left in spilt water. Beneath the timestamp was the quote “The elements found inside us are formed in stars. We are nothing more than stardust. Meet you in the skies.”

Lance frowned at the words. Perhaps Shiro had been drafted and left to meet him then. It was weird not to keep the letters on hand to give him. Lance was sure Adam would appreciate the tasteful lewds.

Lance was a sticky-beak by nature, but he wasn’t going to risk an eyeful of photographs not meant for his eyes, no matter how lonely or starved for information he was. He had standards, damnit.

There was a microwave next to the stove, vacant of all lights and numbers. Time ceased to be an important metric when not used for communication or in connection with a task. It stretched out before you, became measured not in numbers but in biological functions. A stomach growl. A headache telling you water was needed. Even signals for sleep could only be allowed to be indulged when it was safe to do so. Time was also now in immediacy. The impact of one foot after the other over sticks. Too heavy heartbeats and respirations when hiding from people willing to cut off your arms for trade. When the world ended, everyone was on time zero.

The closet was unfortunately not a pantry, although tins of peaches, beans and some dried pasta to gnaw on were hidden on one of the shelves. No, it had clothes in it. Singlets. Sandals. Jeans. Tracksuits and workout gear, one pair a novelty pair of sweats with ‘JUICY’ written across the ass-checks. Of all things, a pair of matching fancy suits complete with bow-ties were strung up next to each other, sheathed in protective plastic that moths had unfortunately eaten through in little flecks of missing plastic. Lance pulled up the plastic and whistled at the thread-count and cut. Damn these men had style. 

On the ground were miscellaneous items. Bug spray. A camping stove. He checked the shoes. Some looked like business-shoes, as if they were ready at any moment to be called up into a meeting from their wilderness retreat and had them on hand and polished just in case. But there were some good hiking boots and some sneakers for easier running. 

Unfortunately, none of them seemed to quite fit him—either too long for the toes or too narrow around the heels—save a ratty pair of sneakers that looked like they had been worn through trenches and a bog, and a too-edgy pair of black hiking boots with of all things red laces. Lance suspected, given that the other shoes were so meticulously maintained and varied, and clearly replaced every few years at the very least to not be overworn, that these were owned by the kid called Keith. Lance’s feet fit them perfectly, and he was honestly miffed. He wasn’t going to wear those hot-topic boots, no sir-ee. And the sneakers? Practically held together with duct tape. Not to mention having the same size shoe as a kid? Maybe they were more recent editions, and maybe ‘the kid’ might be a year or two older than him, but come on.

A fully stocked tent was also in a box up top and Lance debated on checking it out—would it hold all of his equipment? Would it be too heavy on his back? Just all the practicalities versus comfort questions. Honestly, coming into winter his body might not be able to outlive another chill. He was getting too skinny from the foraging and minimal meat he was able to scrounge up these days. He couldn’t afford to get sick. But he also couldn’t afford to pull a back muscle.

Fuck it.

He reached up on his tip toes to slide it out, bracing himself for the impact of the weight. What happened instead was the drop of something small, hard and plastic which banged into his forehead from above. He hissed and rubbed his head, going to kick the offending object before he realized what it was.

A humble radio-transmitter, shaped like a walky-talky. Man, he used to talk to his abuelo across the farm with those. Maybe this could pick up some music? He was getting tired of singing himself to sleep with his mamá’s lullabies. What he wouldn’t give for some obnoxious pop, especially the ones his older sister pretended to hate and that he loved enthusiastically. He loved dancing around the house to the most generic and plucky of beats.

He picked it up with a fond smile. Turned it on and played with the knobs, trying to find his favourite channel. He allowed himself to be upset when he heard nothing but dead static. The warp of white noise. Sighing, he was about to turn it off when it picked up another channel. His mouth felt dry as he heard it click into place. The sound of silence rather than white noise. 

Then, softly, a gravelly voice.

“If anybody is out there, send me a message. Checking out for today in three, two—”

Despite himself—despite every cell in his body screaming it could be a roving gang hoping to steal more resources, or even worse—he hit transmit signal.

There was a gasp on the other end. Hesitation. Then—

“Adam? Shiro? Is that one of you? The signature—”

Lance cleared his throat that once again felt dry despite the water. Gave an embarrassed chuckle and scratched the back of his hair. Put on a winsome smile. Even if it couldn’t be seen, maybe it would be heard. That he meant no harm. That he just wanted someone to talk to.

“Hello. Sorry, I’m not either Adam or Shiro. The name’s Lance. And you have the most handsome voice I’ve ever heard.”


End file.
